


Starting Over

by simplyprologue



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Shameless Smut, with added bonus!feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I’ve always been fond of you,” he answers, fingers returning to her hair, spreading it out across his pillow; banked fire across the washed-out grey that has become day after trying day of just surviving.</i> In which the Adama collective plays at happy families and it kind of escalates from there. Spaceparents smut, unapologetically fluffy. Takes place sometime between <i>Rapture</i> and <i>Taking a Break From All Your Worries</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starting Over

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If _only_ writing spaceparents smut was financially lucrative. Alas, not mine. Just playing in someone else's sandbox. (I am treating them a bit nicer than Moore does, though. Didn't have sex until ADFMS my ass.)
> 
> So this started as a bit of a joke, but then clearly exploded into something outside of my control. Many thanks to tumblr users **wolfheartedqueen, wibblywobblyaingoodway, headtrip-honey, ragnaroktopus,** and **87-peverellhall** also known as **someassemblingrequired** around these parts of the internet. 
> 
> Like it says in the summary, this piece of navel-gazing (or headcanon) takes place sometime between _Rapture_ and _Taking a Break From All Your Worries_ and should not be taken seriously.

She says goodbye to Lee, giggling somewhat self-consciously as he blushingly kisses her cheek, telling her _bye Mom_ before letting Kara drag him out of his father’s quarters.  
  
It had started innocently enough--she and Bill bickering over something after dinner while Lee and Kara lazed on the couch, passing a bottle of rotgut between them.  
  
Innocently enough, until Kara leaned over to Lee and in a conspiratorial (and not so very quiet, Laura could add) voice, whispered, “I don’t like it when Mom and Dad fight.”  
  
It was a silly thing, a notion that wound her up with a tipsy Kara’s blonde head in her lap, reminding her too much of New Caprica and too much like her sisters when they were young, and she barely notices Bill’s gaze on her as she somewhat awkwardly mothered his somewhat drunk (and only somewhat biological, in Kara’s case) children. Barely notices, that is, until she closes the hatch behind them and walks back over towards his couch, considers her blazer and whether or not she should return to her guest quarters, and looks up to see Bill’s eyes hard on her.  
  
Laura giggles again, because that’s just what she does, and lets his startlingly blue eyes direct her towards the back of his cabin.  
  
He pins her to his desk with the patented Adama glare, although this time it’s infused with lust and… something almost tangible, like the press of his fingers to her waist, her hips, her thighs, his teeth nipping at the curve of a breast.  
  
Laura braces herself on her elbows, leaning back, pivoting her hips forward as he looms over her, cupping her the base of head with one large hand and not-so-gently anchoring his lips to hers. His other hand comes to her hips and lifts her and her feet leave the ground; she kicks off her heels, hears them distantly clattering on the floor feet away.  
  
Her ass lands on top of the edge of the desk and one of his knees comes between hers; she leans forward, hips moving instinctively as Bill bites at her lower lip before pushing his tongue into her mouth. She hums, hands smoothing over his back and then circling to his front, fingers twisting into the front of his jacket, trying to tug him closer and feel his chest pushed up against hers.  
  
He leans her back, and Laura feels his hand leave her waist to hurriedly push the stack of reports to the floor with a careless sweep before her head hits the blotter. Her feet dangle, almost reaching the floor, hanging  awkwardly for a moment before he hoists them to wrap at his waist. They both groan as their groins meet, his hardened length against her heat.  
  
Laura arches her back into him, needing to get _closer_. Bill pushes her back down onto the hard surface, not roughly but not...  
  
Laura moans into his mouth as his hands chase up her front, covering her breasts. His thumbs rub over her nipples through layers of cotton and padding, before his fingers begin plucking at the buttons on her blouse, nimbly slipping the disks from their holes, and suddenly Laura is very grateful that she left her blazer on his couch hours ago.  
  
His lips move from her mouth, leaving her breathless and squirming as he bites at the point of her chin before trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses from her neck to the pale, freckled skin of her chest, her shirt falling open before him. He refuses to be distracted, even as Laura wriggles on her back, pulling her arms from from the blouse; instead he dedicates his precision-focus on the heft of her breasts in his palms, pushing her nipples over the cup of her bra, sucking one after the other between his lips. His eyes flicker towards her face as he rolls the buds between his teeth, glowing with satisfaction when she flushes with pleasure.  
  
“Gods, Bill!” she gasps, fingers threading into his hair, anything to keep his mouth doing what its doing. And to think she had begun to wonder if those nights on New Caprica were only the productions of her lonely, wanting mind.  
  
Tightening her legs around his waist, Laura begins to rub herself shamelessly against him, biting her lip against a rough moan when she angles herself so his cock can stroke against her clit through his thick wool trousers.  
  
“Bill, oh Gods, Bill…”  
  
His mouth curves against her damp skin. “Laura?”  
  
She swats at him helplessly as he chuckles, plumping her breasts, renders her bra useless. He licks at the tender skin in the dip between them, before angling his head to bite, suck, _mark_ , her left breast. Laura can feel her pulse jump, heart beating wildly under the instruction of Bill’s dedicated ministrations.  
  
He snorts softly, licking a long line up the delicate muscles of her neck, bracing himself on his forearms above her. _What a sight_ , he thinks, her auburn curls blanketing his desk, glasses pulled far down the slope of her nose, naked from the waist up. A feline smile crosses her face, her fingers stroking thoughtfully down his back, before creeping to the waist of his pants, pulling the hem of his jacket out them with quick, decisive movements.  
  
“Hi,” she says, giggling softly.  
  
“Hi,” Bill answers, hands caressing the thighs locked around his hips, fingers moving increasingly upwards until they begin to toy with the bottom of her skirt, pushing it up over her hips in one smooth motion. “Been awhile.”  
  
Laura hums in response, a pleasant noise that he’ll be stuck forever associating with moments like these.  
  
“What?” One hand cupping her ass, he lifts her hips off the desk to undo her skirt zipper; obliging, she wraps one arm around his shoulders, arching her hips so can he slip her skirt off and down her legs--she kicks that away as well, realizing that he’s gotten her down to her underwear without losing a stitch of his own clothing.  
  
She pulls him down for a kiss, licking at the roof of his mouth, hoping to distract him long enough to at least get the buttons of his tunic undone.  
  
“Missed you,” she replies when he breaks away from her mouth again, nuzzling her neck before pressing his lips to her pulse. “Missed us...” her voice trails off when his hands smooth back up her thighs, to her hands working at the fasteners on his chest, lifting them and pinning them at the sides of her head, quirking an eyebrow at her that clearly spelled _understood?_ She smiles beguilingly in return. “Missed this.”  
  
Bill lowers his mouth again to hers, laces their fingers together for a moment before determinedly returning his hands to breasts, giving them only a perfunctory caress before continuing south to her the dip of her waist, the crux of her thighs. She smiles against his mouth, and it’s so absurd, this thing between them, that is not old and yet not entirely new, fragile and not necessarily uncertain, yet unspoken.  
  
(It did, after all, only begin with the end of the worlds.)  
  
His fingers rub over her through the damp cotton of her briefs, slowly, at first, before pushing the fabric aside. Laura sighs contentedly as Bill probes gently at her entrance, collecting her wetness before moving deliberately upwards. He presses down on her clit, rubbing her with his blessedly-precise memory (days spent in bed together on New Caprica, he remembers fondly), before returning to her entrance, frakking into her with one crooked finger, and then a second, moving his thumb to work over her clit, before his mind begins registering the ragged breaths against his lips.  
  
Mercifully, Laura thinks, Bill moves his mouth to her ear, instead engaging his tongue with tracing it’s shell, allowing her to breathe somewhat normally again--as normally as she can with his fingers stretching inside her and bending _just so_.  
  
“Gods,” she breathes, hands moving up to grasp at the ledge of the desk above the top of her head.  
  
“No, Madame President,” he murmurs, pushing his fingers into her ever-so-slowly, chuckling as he hears a breath catch in her chest. “Just me.”  
  
“Well then, Admiral,” she starts, words carried away on a moan. He repeats the motion and she loses her train of thought, instead focusing on the bright lights suddenly erupting on the insides of her eyelids.  
  
“Well then _what_?” He nibbles at her earlobe. “Madame President?”  
  
“Bill...”  
  
She mutters something almost incoherent, back arching at the climbing pressure. Bill removes his fingers from her folds, smiling as she pouts at him, blearily opening her sage-colored eyes.  
  
“Bill...” she says again, voice lowering to needy whine when his hand moves to stroke the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, tension rippling through her at the feeling of her wetness on his fingers moving over her exposed flesh. Sliding one leg higher, she presses her heel into his ass, trying to bring him nearer, disappointed when he refuses to give into her tacit request.  
  
He, however, is in no hurry, finally taking the time to slide her panties off her hips, and as the fabric clears her thighs, drops to his knees before her, pulling her legs over his shoulders. His hands play over her skin; deliberate caresses along her calves and stomach, his thumbs circling the fine bones of her hips. Bill watches her take a deep breath, unclenching her hands from her hold above her head before shakily propping herself up on her elbows to look down at him over the flat plane of her belly.  
  
Sure hands dance higher and higher as Bill’s mouth begins to map the inside of her thighs, lips and teeth igniting long-ignored swaths of skin. Laura’s hips squirmed impatiently at the memory of his mouth on her, the ghost of his suckling kisses on her wet heat.  
  
Coaxing her higher and higher, he begins to bite at the line where hip meets thigh, tongue solicitously laving at the delicious sting before moving back down, almost to the juncture of her legs. She begins to hum again, biting her lip as she carefully begins to rock her hips against his face, the flush breaking out across her chest deepening, spreading to her cheeks, her rosy nipples.  
  
 _Frak_ , he thinks, eyes chasing up the smooth lines of her body, watching her head fall back.  
  
“What a beautiful picture,” he says, choosing the moment to finally bring his mouth to her slit, tongue cleaving her folds and following up to her clit. Laura twitches, squirms, her reply cut off at the bud as her thighs tense atop his shoulders. She groans loudly, uninhibited, and he watches the muscles under the skin of her stomach rippling with the movement of her hips against his mouth, the taste of her more exquisite than the fine wines left behind to ripen on the colonies.  
  
He presses open-mouthed kisses to her pussy, tongue swirling around her entrance before his teeth nip softly up towards her clit, taking a moment to breach her, tongue frakking her, hands moving up to spread her thighs, fingers biting into her skin as he has to restrain her from snapping her legs around his ears, her hips moving in time with her pulsing arousal.  
  
“Gods, Bill... oh Gods, Bill...”  
  
She drops down onto the desk with a solid _thump_ , her body writhing on top of the lacquered wood, and Bill knows that signing reports will never _quite_ be the same.  
  
“Yes... _yes_... pleaseohGodsyes...”  
  
Her hands frantically scramble out for purchase, knocking over picture frames, folders, knick-knacks, all clattering to the floor with jerky sweeps, until her fingers bury in his hair, her body rocking desperately against his movements.  
  
A gasp starts in her throat, escalating to a husky moan as Bill proves again that he’s the master of the slow build, the burning tumult of lips and teeth and tongue. Bill spreads his fingers on her thighs, steadying her as he moans into her pussy, sucking, at last, her clit into his mouth. Laura arches her back again, the wood cool against her sweat-slicked shoulders and back, and she gains enough cognizance to finally shuck her bra from her trembling frame before hurriedly returning her hands to Bill’s coarse strands, his own palms and fingers greedily drinking in all of the soft skin they can reach as he eats her, passionately and without reticence.  
  
“Bill...” she moans plaintively, tightening her grip on the base of his skull, pushing him harder to her cunt. Oh Gods, who would have thought two years ago, as cancer stole all of her grace and... the thought is swept away as he pushes himself higher onto his knees, fingers pressing into her again as his tongue focuses solely on her firm nub, his free hand dropping from her thigh to finally rid himself of his jacket.  
  
The minute he loosens her legs her thighs close over his shoulders, press into his ears, and suddenly he's surrounded by nothing but his Laura, her sweet skin and ripened juices and beautiful pussy, her moans carried through by vibrations down her taut muscles.  
  
She’s thrusting her hips against his face in earnest now, and he’s caught in the current that is Laura’s building orgasm, thinks faintly that he hears her palms leaving his head to slap down uselessly on the desk. Her legs thrash helplessly before he grasps one again, pushing it up on top of his desk to give himself more leverage.  
  
She rambles incoherently, maybe his name or maybe an invocation to the Gods, hands sending more folders and papers fluttering to the carpet. His eyes dare to venture northwards again, feels his cock pulsing helplessly against the band of his trousers at the sight of her, flushed and sweaty and trembling on his desk, and suddenly he thinks of how it would look if someone, anyone, walked in at this moment--the Admiral, on his knees in front of the President, worshipping her with his hands and mouth. He doesn’t know if he believes in the Lords but heaven and Hades he believes her, his wanton goddess, and he’ll worship her how he sees fit.  
  
Bill is meticulous, and Laura’s lust-addled mind attributes this to his years as a pilot, or maybe building his little ship, but she’s thankful that every movement of his is calculated and precise and--and-- _Oh Gods_ , she thinks, before voicing it aloud, a strain of coherence amongst her babbling, fiery joy burning through her veins faster and hotter than any cancer could, than it did.  
  
(It’s only William Adama who lives in her veins now, that and some blossoming emotion that she will not yet allow a name that is so opposite the cancer that she cannot, will not, not now, maybe not ever, but Gods she _does_...)  
  
His fingers drag purposefully through her wetness, splitting and filling her before pressing deep inside and curling, finding that elusive patch of skin and _pushing_... Laura’s back arcs gracelessly off the desk, a rough shriek pulled from her mouth.  
  
“So close,” she cries, eyes fluttering shut, mouth hanging open with desperate gasps. “Oh my Gods, Bill, so close I’m so frakking close, I’m--I’m almost there, please Bill--”  
  
He flies her to the edge once, twice, before holding her there for a frenzied minute, her arousal descending into madness as she can feel her whole body throbbing hopelessly with the need to _come_ and _rightmotherfrakkingnow_ , his fingers pulling infinite sensations from her, heightening her senses into madness. Taunting her, almost, tendering a deep ache as her fluids gush relentlessly against his talented tongue.  
  
“Bill!” she begs, and he pulls back his mouth a breath, resting the barest tip of his tongue against her red, swollen nub, his fingers resting just outside the ring of hard muscle at her opening. He pushes aside the vision of standing, sliding his thick cock home into her, her breasts rippling violently with every hard thrust, hair spilled wildly on top of the familiar wood surface... pushes it aside, for later. She lifts her head enough to look down at him and he inhales sharply, knows that she knows how impossibly hard he is, how ready he is for her. But... later.  
  
 _Ladies first_ , he thinks distantly.  
  
His fingers frak into her hard, first one, and then a second, before pushing in a third, spreading her relentlessly to the girth that she craves, changing the angle of approach with every unforgiving thrust, until he finds the measure that renders her shaking and gasping for breath. Devouring her clit, he strips away every layer, casts away the president and the politician and the teacher, until Laura, the woman, his woman, remains.  
  
He moans, and she writhes, primal and magnificent, and it’s too much for her overwrought nerves and she comes, finally, face scrunched, hips jerking helplessly into his mouth as her pussy pulsates, drenching him. He groans at the sensation of her pussy clenching down on his fingers, the vibrations encasing her clit in a sensation so sweet, so sharp and almost painful, and he refuses to let her settle back down, pushing back up onto that spot inside of her as she sobs her release, denying her anything but the feeling of the pressure, the build, the explosion of pleasure. Unable to think or even to breathe, her first orgasm skyrockets into a second, before he finally eases her down from her high, tenderly removing two of his fingers from her and slowly moving over her overworked and swollen flesh.  
  
So magnificent, his Laura, this part of her the only part he could ever dare to claim.  
  
No, he thinks, Laura Roslin was not a woman who could ever be claimed. At least not without her consent.  
  
Through a haze of indistinguishable sensation, Laura can feel him stand, getting off his knees, and lean over her before gathering her in his arms. His fingers massage her numb legs into limp-limbed bliss before deftly picking her up against his still mostly-clothed form and carrying her to his rack, tenderly depositing her atop the sheets before dropping onto his side next to her.  
  
She hums happily, locking an arm around his shoulder, tugging him to lay his larger frame on top of her much more petite one. Thinking of Carolanne, who would always shove him off of her as soon as possible, he hesitates, but goes willingly. Leaning on his forearms over her, Bill sweeps her red curls out of her face, slowly kissing the squared line of her jaw.  
  
“I _really_ missed that,” she giggles, eyes still shut against all extraneous sensations, choosing to focus instead on the fluttering reverberations between her thighs, his mouth tracing the line between her chin and her ear, his erection pressing into her hip, his bulk securing her to his rack. “I almost forgot how good you were at it.”  
  
“Almost?” he teases lowly, breath hot in her ear.  
  
His hands make a reappearance at her waist, calloused fingers rubbing her satiny skin. He’s missed it, the easy intimacy they had on New Caprica. It had all but disappeared when the cylons appeared in atmo and he issued the jump order. After the Exodus they had barely had the time for a few hurried kisses, and by the time they could take a breath they were both swept back into the restraints of office and duty, the tension between them building but never quite diffusing. Until right now...  
  
Bill leans back, finally taking the moment to carefully remove her glasses, folding them to place them on the shelf above his rack. Opening her eyes, she smiles up at him, cupping his cheeks in her hands and bringing his face to hers for another kiss, entwining their tongues languidly.  
  
The first--and up until now, the last--time he had gotten her into his rack was the night before she went down to settle on that godsforsaken hellhole, the rest of their time together consigned to her small, poorly-insulated tent and during the warmer weather in the grass, up by her lake, and one memorable time, up against the landing struts of Colonial One as Baltar signed over supplies that were supposed to go to building a proper school to some other frakker’s project. But not his rack, when the frakweasel decided who could and could not go up to the Galactica.  
  
Laura sighs out of the kiss, shivering for reasons that have nothing to do with being cold. Quite the opposite, really, and she clenches the fabric of his tanks in her hands, tugging them upwards, until she can slide her fingers under to feel his warm skin.  
  
“You’re still dressed,” she says, biting petulantly at his ear.  
  
“I was preoccupied,” he answers, allowing her to draw his tanks up and over his head, cast them to the floor somewhere. (He smirks internally at what the clothing strewn about his quarters must look like; from the couch to the desk to the rack.) “You weren’t complaining at the time.”  
  
Hands chasing down to the fastener of his belt, Laura wonders why now, why tonight?  
  
Ever since New Caprica (since the dance, she mentally corrects) their relationship has been... not strained, just... especially distant. Not that she expected it to be what it had been before the cylons jumped into orbit, but Laura has desperately missed the companionable friendship, the effortless intimacy. How comfortable and unthinking it had been, when now their relationship had recently taken a turn for calculating and controlled... since Hera.  
  
She didn’t think he’d ever want to... again. With her. Has he forgiven her? Does she want his forgiveness?  
  
“Stop thinking.”  
  
She hums, letting her fingers flick open the clip, before moving to nimbly undo the button and fly. “I’m not thinking.”  
  
“I can hear your brain whirring.” He nuzzles her neck, allowing her to push his pants and boxers down past his hips. “What’s wrong?”  
  
Only Bill would be willing to ignore a raging hard-on in the middle of sex to talk about her problems. Laura finds it so very endearing, but so very infuriating when she doesn’t actually _want_ to talk about it, she just wants _this_ between them. It’s easy to have his tongue in her mouth. It’s impossible to have him in her head, looking at her like that with those impossibly blue eyes.  
  
“Bill,” she says, trying to distract him by trailing her palm along his shaft, brushing her thumb along the tip before moving down the press on the sensitive nerve just under the head. “Let’s just...”  
  
“Laura,” he rasps, tracing the curve of her hips, looking at her just so... it’s easier being naked in front of Bill than it is to be under the weight of his gaze. She squirms, almost uncomfortably so, and something in his face softens; he lifts his hands to cup her face, kisses her softly.  
  
She hums, relaxing, and he draws back to look at her again.  
  
“What?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.  
  
His fingers tangle in her hair. “You’re beautiful.”  
  
Laura snorts, shaking her head, working on pushing his pants down. He obligingly kicks them off the rack. Finally, she stretches out beneath him, feeling his body meeting her for inch after inch of skin, his erection pressed enticingly against her belly.  
  
He shakes his head, brushing his nose along her cheek. “You are.”  
  
“I thought you weren’t very fond of me. At least recently.” She keeps her tone as light as possible, facetious even, her hands roaming over his sides and back, feet tracing over the familiar curves of his muscular calves. He’s strong--not tall, but powerful, potential energy just coiling under his skin with the rippling of hard muscle under her fingertips. He makes her feel safe.  
  
Every inch of her cries out how much she’s missed this. Just him, and his skin, and his presence near her, under her hands. She can’t define what _this_ is, won’t make the decision to go down that path, but _this_ helps her. Comforts her--that he doesn’t make her define it. Maybe he has his own definition. And maybe it’s... enough. For him. And them. ( _For now_ , a tiny voice whispers from a long-darkened corner of her mind.)  
  
“I’ve always been fond of you,” he answers, fingers returning to her hair, spreading it out across his pillow; banked fire across the washed-out grey that has become day after trying day of just surviving.  
  
She cocks an eyebrow at him, humming that specific hum that he recognizes as _you’re so full of shit, Admiral._ It’s just for him, too. Everyone else gets their own generalized pitch for being full of it.  
  
He chuckles, fondling his way down past her waist, to her thighs, wrapping them around his hips. “Or your legs. I’ve always been fond of your legs. The rest of you might have come a bit later.”  
  
“That sounds more like it,” she giggles, using her heels to caress the back of his hamstrings, trying to push him closer with little success. “So you’re a leg man, Bill Adama?”  
  
The flats of his hand strokes up and down the soft skin of her thighs, reacquainting themselves with the familiar territory. He kisses her again, softly. “I’m your man.”  
  
He lowers his lips to hers again, or begins to--to give her an out, Laura supposes, and it strikes her how well he knows her, how considerate of her he is, and she stops him with a finger to his mouth, stroking his bottom lip tenderly.  
  
“My man?” she whispers, her eyes following her finger’s tracing motions in an attempt to tamp down on her rising emotions--if she looks in his eyes, she knows she’ll lose her carefully-wrought control. “And who am I?”  
  
His kisses her fingertip thoughtfully, before speaking around it. “You’re my Laura.”  
  
“Your Laura?” she says, almost choking out the words as she gives in, looks in his eyes, kisses him in response to what she sees there.  
  
He pulls away smiling. “The rest of the fleet gets the President. But I get to see you. You let me see Laura.” He can only claim what she gives willingly.  
  
She grins tremulously, brushing over the lines of his face with the pads of her fingers. “I think you may be the only one who does.”  
  
“Then its an honor.”  
  
“I don’t know... Laura makes some questionable decisions. Are you sure you want to claim her?”  
  
“I like Laura,” Bill simply says. “I know the President has to... but I like Laura. I’ve always liked Laura.” He flashes her a daring smile, a specter of the daring viper jock he once was, and still is, on some level. “Or at least her legs.”  
  
“What do you like about her?” she asks, almost shyly, dipping her head to run her lips along the line of his muscled shoulder. “Besides her legs,” she adds, tightening her thighs around him and canting her hips into his straining erection.  
  
“Besides her legs...” Bill moans, laughing, lowering his hands to affectionately squeeze her ass, thighs, knees. He kisses her cheek, thinking. Not of what to say, but how. “I like her... her smile, when she’s being mischievous. Doing something that the president shouldn’t be doing. I like her taste in books. I like how she dances.” She mutters something about _dancing_ , scratching her nails down his back in a way that almost makes him shudder. “I like how playful she can be. How she curses like a sailor. I like that she’s... thoughtful.” He kisses her collarbone. “Dedicated.” The hollow of her throat. “Smart.” Her other collarbone. “And stubborn as frakking hell.”  
  
“My... _man_ likes a challenge.” Laura thrusts her hips against his, hands moving to his ass, trying to get him to come closer into the cradle of her legs. He goes willingly, tilting his hips to return the sensation,blindly rubbing the length of his hardness through her wet, aching slit. Her mouth drops open, head falling back.  
  
“I _was_ a pilot. We’ve been known to appreciate the impossible,” he murmurs, tracing the line of her throat with mouth, teeth following lips against her pulse, careful not to leave a mark this time. Hips continuing their teasing movements, his hands press her down into the mattress, keeping her right where he wants her.  
  
Laura moans helplessly, nails pressing sharply into his lower back, the sensation cloying and keen.  
  
“Now...” he husks. “Where was I?”  
  
“Something about me being impossible,” she murmurs.  
  
“Right.” His lips trail from her neck to her open mouth, nibbling her lower lip, pressing hard into her hips when she gives a ragged gasp in response, releasing a fresh wave of fluid against his member. _So frakking wet_ , he thinks. “My charmingly impossible Laura.”  
  
He thinks, as difficult as it is with the entrance to her pussy mere inches from the head of his cock. “She’s patient, and compassionate... but gods save you if you make her angry.”  
  
She laughs almost manically, clutching him desperately. “Gods, Bill, please...”  
  
“Not done yet,” he says, worrying her lip between his teeth again. “But so frakking beautiful when she’s pissed, or passionate.”  
  
Her fingers clutch the lip of the shelf above his rack, and she pulls herself up, a few inches perhaps, but enough to position him at her opening, so when she thrusts over him the tip of his cock hits the tight ring of muscle at her entrance.  
  
Now it’s Bill who’s biting his lip, groaning, trying to hold onto his restraint.  
  
“She’s infuriating, but adorable. And she giggles.” His words are coming quicker, she’s trembling under him, eyes screwed shut and godsfrakkingdammit he wants her to open them, so his hand moves to her folds, his thumb pressing down on her clit, and he gets what he wants, her watery grey-green eyes staring into his. “She’s good with children, likes them. And she likes my children.” _Gods_ , he thinks, _isn’t that what got them there tonight_. “She’s my partner. My best friend.”  
  
His other hands wipes away the tears collecting under her eyes before she dares to turn her head, look away. “And I love her.”  
  
She whimpers, face crumpling. He lets her burrow her face in his neck, kissing the side of her face as he finally pushes into her, exhaling sharply at her high and broken cry.  
  
“So you’ve forgiven me?” she asks, breathing strained. “For taking Hera? I know--I know you--”  
  
He cuts her off before she can chase that train of thought. Too heavy, when he’s buried in her, warm and hot and tight and can now barely think of anything at all, besides the softness of her skin and scent of her thick hair and her arms and legs wrapped around him. “I thought you didn’t need my forgiveness?”  
  
“Its--It’s still nice to know sometimes that--that I have it.” He begins to thrust, long and slow, until he’s almost out of her before sliding surely back to the hilt. “Oh frak, _Bill_.”  
  
Her fingers tug at the hair at the base of his neck, dragging his mouth back to hers; both of his hands cup her ass, angling her hips just so with every measured stroke. His kiss is steady and purposeful, but unassuming, his tongue moving slowly with hers, counterpoint to the motions of their hips. She sighs into his mouth, breaking away slowly as her breathing begins to hitch, grow irregular.  
  
“You have it, Laura,” he rasps, moving to suckle the supple skin under her ear. “You’ll always have it.”  
  
He misses the way her face creases with emotion, but not how her limbs tighten around him, her channel contracting in response. _So good_... His pace doesn’t speed up, but the power of his thrusts increase. Laura arches against him, pressing her breasts against him, peaked nipples dragging along his sparsely-haired chest.  
  
“So good...” she moans, echoing his thoughts.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
She hums, tears still chasing down her face to the pillow, smiling up at him. He returns it, lifting himself to brace his hands on the shelf above his rack for leverage, lengthening his strokes into her.  
  
His tags swing down, hitting her in the face, and they both burst out laughing--Laura curls her fingers around them, pulling him back down until he’s nose to nose with her. Slowly, she pulls his lower lip between her teeth, before licking soothingly across the width of his mouth. Angling her face to chase her tongue into his mouth, Laura’s hands drift around and then up his back, fingers slipping under the chain around his neck, pulling it up and over his head and over her own.  
  
Bill lifts his head questioningly, eyes following the dog tags to where they lay over her left breast.  
  
Humming louder and louder, she begins to circle her hips against his, twisting with his every downstroke.  
  
“Hmmm...” One of her hands trails down to where his tags lay, fingers curling over her prize; the other lingers where it is at the base of his neck, nails biting with every forceful thrust. “Turn over. I wanna be on top.”  
  
A surge of arousal burns through him with her request, and they carefully jockey for position within his narrow rack, until the curve of Laura’s ass comes to rest against curve of his cock, slick from their fluids. She rocks back against him, dragging her wetness across his stomach, before lifting up onto her knees, grasping his erection in hand, palming it into position under her opening. Smiling mischievously, she teases the head of his cock against her entrance, before arching her back and rolling her hips down onto him, leaning back to brace herself on his thighs.  
  
She starts slowly, circling her hips atop him. Bill’s hands quickly come to grip her hips, not to control her movements but just to touch her, keep touching her, palms skirting down the front of her thighs, over her strong legs, up to her quivering stomach muscles, cupping her swinging breasts. His thumbs brush over her rosy buds, eyes entranced by the delicate lines of her neck, the planes of her chest, her head, thrown back, sweat collecting in the valley between her breasts. His tags look at home there, he thinks, and they sway with every jolting thrust of her hips over his.  
  
He pushes her breasts together, squeezing, and she moans, one of her hands coming up to tangle in her hair as the muscles of her face tighten, pace of her thrusts increasing.  
  
“Perfect,” he says, and she lets out a laughing groan.  
  
“You need your vision checked.”  
  
“No,” he answers, tempted to use her appropriated dog tags to pull her down for a kiss.  
  
Instead, he bends his knees and returns his hands to her hips, helping her thrust down onto him, meeting her every movement with a roll of his hips. Her flesh vibrates under his hands, their motions reverberating up her body, hair dancing, her skin flushed and glistening in the low light of his cabin, hair so, so red and he...  
  
She takes him torturously slow. A shaking hand comes to cover his over her hip, all the hurried intensity of earlier gone, instead replaced by a kind of tethering kind of intimacy. Slow, heated, and meaningful.  
  
Bill’s hands slide up to her waist, fingers circling in, beginning to lift her in time with his controlled thrusts, slowing her down even further. They begin a long, heated grind, and he tilts her hips forward, bringing her clit to rub against the ridge of bone above his cock. Her head tilts forward again, and he watches a myriad of expressions flit over her face before she opens her eyes, whimpering at whatever she sees on his. He briefly wonders what he looks like--like an idiot, probably, overjoyed at the prospect of the object of his love riding him in his rack, at the reality of touching her, watching her fall apart--but she smiles back at him, his Laura, lets him lightly direct her movements.  
  
“Perfect,” he says again, circling a hand in to work her clit, grinning when a look of sublime pleasure washes across her features, cutting off what he knows would have been a negation of this fact.  
  
Her hips buck helplessly within his grasp, a new wave of arousal wetting his fingertips as she mutters incoherently, looks down at him defenselessly.  
  
“My Laura.” She keens in response, biting her lip. “My beautiful Laura.”  
  
Her hips speed up, the tension between them building, the heat growing, and he burns through her veins brighter and hotter than the cancer ever could.  
  
“ _Frak_...” she moans, “Bill...”  
  
 _Gods,_ but he loves her, he does.  
  
And she... she... braces her hands on his shoulders, leaning down, moving harder and faster, but still within his grasp. His hands slacken their grip, lets her take them to a quicker pace, a hotter frak. Her hair falls to one side, blocking out everything that isn’t this, isn’t them, isn’t his rack.  
  
His tags dance between them as she lifts her hips off his cock higher and higher with every roll of her hips, and he groans, moving his hands down to her ass, making her ups higher and her downs harder and it begins to build again, the quivering pleasure that courses through their blood, pounds through their hearts, takes up residence in their skin and her nose wrinkles and her breathing turns ragged and his does too, and she starts making these wonderful little cries, high and desperate--  
  
Both are gripping the other hard enough to bruise, to create this symphony of wet slapping skin and vocal moans and encouragements.  
  
He wants to kiss her again and he indulges himself this time, tugging down on the tags, and she yelps, falling to her elbows before her lips crash back against his. 

They pass a breath between them, lips barely touching as Laura rolls her hips over him, as he slides his feet up to give himself the angle to pound into her. Bill’s hand tangles in the chain of his dogtags—godsdammit did they look so good on her, the tags swinging between her breasts and them as she lifts herself over him again and again—pressing the metal into his palm, locking her to him.

Not that it matters, with Laura’s fingers entrenched in his hair, her arms on either side of his head, nails digging into his scalp every time the head of his cock hits bottom—or is it top, in this position?

Her fingers unclench then, her sweat-slick palms skirting down his shoulders, back arching away from him as her nose scrunches in a way he’d probably find adorable if he wasn’t currently buried in her to the hilt, small, mewling cries escaping her with every rhythmic movement of their hips and thighs. She raises up on her elbows again, trembling, before grabbing onto the shelf, bringing her breasts level to his mouth.

Bill realizes that he’s about to come, and soon.

“Frak...”

“What?” she pants, the grip of her thighs at his waist only bringing him further inside of her. Her head falls forward, and she grinds down deeper against him momentarily before resuming her tormenting, hypnotic thrusts. “Gods, Bill... Gods, so close.”

“Yeah?” he groans in response. “How close?”

“So frakkin’ close... Gods I’m so frakkin... close...”

Growling, he wraps one arm strong around her lower back, planting his feet to buck his hips up into her, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter. She gasps, the sound strung through with something almost akin to a scream. He changes the angle, bringing her down tighter against him with each pounding drive until they’re forehead to forehead and he watches her screw her eyes shut.

“Right there,” she whimpers, hands clutching at his biceps as she begins to shake apart above him.

Holding her fast to him, he pushes up into her again and again, rolling his hips up into hers, and hers down into his, praying to any deity listening for her to _come,_ to give him that at least, to feel her pulsing around him.

She’s rambling incoherently again, face falling into the crease between his neck and shoulder, until she begins tightening around him, her pussy becoming even wetter around him, and she starts chanting his name and he can feel her voice vibrating through her, through him, her hips losing rhythm and he holds her hips tightly with both hands, fingers tight enough to bruise as he pushes her into her orgasm.

She comes with a roiling moan that he catches in his mouth. Clenching down hard onto his cock, she mercifully sweeps him along in her wake, gripping him with her hands and limbs and cunt, until everything is Laura.

Bill’s arm presses their torsos tighter together, until she meets him inch for every inch of skin against skin, moving his hips in a tell-tale grind, jerking helplessly into her. His release comes with a low groan; she moans shakily in response, squeezing her thighs around him intermittently, trembling with aftershocks.

_He loves me_. It hits her again, harder, with more clarity.

He loves her, and she doesn’t feel the need to run.

He doesn’t expect her to say it back. Doesn’t want to push her into anything. He's Bill, after all. He knows her. And he loves her. 

She presses little kisses to his neck, head fuzzy and legs numb, little kisses, lips falling wherever they may, followed by teeth and tongue. Bill’s hands sweep up and down the sides of her spine, fingers kneading her back with no detectable pattern, bringing her down from their high. They don’t feel the need to talk, or want to, really. After a little while they shift onto their sides, a little bit of couple’s choreography that’s still well-practiced from New Caprica, and somehow it’s heartening that their muscles have remembered it after so long.

A few minutes later she slides out of his arms, feet padding softly over the rugs as she walks to the head. Bill rolls onto his back and under the covers, slinging an arm over his eyes as his breathing slowly returns to normal, listening to the faint sound of running water. Some time later she returns, washcloth in hand, sidling next to him to clean him as well before allowing him to tug her under the blankets with him.

“You’ll stay the night?” he asks, turning onto his side, pressing his lips near her hairline.

She hums, burrowing into his bulk. “My first meeting’s here. Technically I’m billeted to guest quarters but who’ll know.”

“With who?” His fingers stroke lightly over her waist, and she shivers.

“Lee. And the Sagittaron delegation. Fuel resourcing. Or something...” Her voice trails off, and she rolls on top of him a bit, slinging one leg over his hip.

“Dare you to wear these.” He tugs on the dog tags, still around her neck. He doesn’t ask why she took them, just likes that she did. “They look good on you.”

Laura snorts, and then her snort gives way to sleepy giggles. “You’ll make Lee think he should really be calling me Mom. Playing at happy families...”

“Are we?” he asks, voice lingering in a low, satisfied register.

She blinks, bleary-eyed. “Are we what?”

“Playing.”

“Hmm...” Laura shakes her head, wrinkling her nose. “Doesn’t feel like we’re playing. But Bill...”

“No...” he rasps, kissing her slowly and thoroughly, before settling onto his back. Warm, sated, and Laura draped across him, he drifts off to sleep quicker and easier than he has since those warm, close nights in her tent, a galaxy and eon ago, and dreams of a house full of happy children and a smiling, redheaded wife.

 

:::

 

He wakes briefly to the feeling of soft lips on his own, before being shushed, being told to go back to sleep. His alarm goes off an hour later, and Bill wakes up to an otherwise empty bed. Fumbling for his glasses, and realizing they were left back on his coffee table, his fingers instead finding the familiar chain and a hastily-scribbled note.

He switches on the reading light, squinting down at Laura’s neatly looped script.

_Didn’t think the Quorum would appreciate them like Lee (or mostly Kara) would... but I might steal them again tomorrow night anyway. --L_


End file.
